


In Defense of Angels

by SunstruckSeraph



Category: Dream Team - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angels, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Colorblind GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Dark Academia Vibes, Extended Metaphors, Fallen Angels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light DreamNotFound, M/M, Metaphors, Pining, References to Depression, Sapnap and Wilbur are actually supporting characters instead of cameos, Tagged M Mostly For Implications, angel au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26155000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunstruckSeraph/pseuds/SunstruckSeraph
Summary: George doesn’t know his real name, only that it’s impossible to pronounce with his current, human tongue. He doesn’t even quite remember what he’s meant to look like, only that he is small now, smaller than he’s ever going to get used to, and two eyes is not enough.__In which George is something not quite human and Dream wears a long, green coat.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 234





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the fic I've been pouring my poetic little heart out into! It's an interesting AU that I don't exactly have a clear name for, but you'll catch on fast, I promise. The M rating is mostly for the ongoing depression/mental health metaphors and possible heavier angst in later chapters. No explicit sex or death, I promise.
> 
> This is my first time posting something one chapter at a time that isn't entirely or almost entirely written in advance, so please bear with me. I have a good idea of what the plot is doing and the final word count range.
> 
> Also, to answer some of the questions the first chapter may generate:
> 
> 1\. Yes, I am Sad™  
> 2\. Yes, Wilbur is my favorite to write.  
> 3\. No, I do not know how to tag.  
> 4\. Yes, there will be some cute Dream/George stuff in the next couple of chapters.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your support! Your comments mean the world to me and are always read thoroughly. <3

George doesn’t know his real name, only that it’s impossible to pronounce with his current, human tongue. He doesn’t even quite remember what he’s meant to look like, only that he is small now, smaller than he’s ever going to get used to, and two eyes is not enough.

As a child, people always told him he was mature, grown up for his age. He never knew what to say to that, even when he was younger and more careful with his words. How was he supposed to tell them about the phantom weight on his back, the formless longing that washed over him whenever he watched birds take flight, the constant sense that something was missing? It didn’t help that this...version of him, whether it was a vessel or something else entirely, was already a little broken to begin with. His eyes were all wrong. Or maybe his brain was all wrong? In any case, he wouldn’t have been able to see the world the same way as other people, even if everything else was all right. So he stopped trying. 

He grew from a cautious, serious child into an outspoken boy who knew how to weaponize his big, brown eyes to get what he wanted. His childhood drifted by around him, or maybe he drifted through it, as if everything that happened to him happened through thick glass, the sound muffled, the threat of any actual involvement minimal. He had friends, in the sense that people talked to him and he talked back and all parties involved felt positively about the interaction, but George knew -- and still knows -- that he is something strange and difficult. When the weight of that sinks down onto him too hard, he cries. He cries more than anyone would guess. It’s something to take comfort in, actually -- proof that he is not a shell, not empty. Maybe he isn’t human in the perfect sense of the word, but George knows he’s real, even if he doesn’t feel like it sometimes. He knows he can hurt.

George also knows that he isn’t the only one. Not by a longshot.

The first time he saw another like him, he knew it immediately. He was a teenager, sleepless and cynical despite his affliction, or maybe even more so because of it. The bakery was a wonderful, warm haven against the backdrop of biting November snow. It wasn’t the kind of soft snow that drew children out to play; rather, it was cruel, grasping, trying to bury whatever it could. It was awful to be out in, even for George, who was typically unaffected by external discomfort. He ducked into the bakery on his way home from school to catch his breath, and maybe buy something warm for the walk. 

He felt it as soon as they locked eyes, maybe a breath before. The tall, lanky boy leaning against the counter was out of place in a way that went far beyond his mannerisms or anything he wore. He seemed somehow sharper than the rest of the scene, rendered in clearer focus than anyone else in the bakery. George watched him realize at the same moment, their eyes caught on each other. Haunted. That was the best word for the boy, for his eyes. Something deep in George’s chest unwound, like he was letting out a breath he had been holding for his whole life. He tore his gaze away for just long enough to scrawl his phone number on a napkin and shove it at the boy. Then he raced out of the bakery, afraid of what he knew, more afraid of what he didn’t know.

That was how George met Wilbur. 

Neither of them had really had a friend before, not properly, so their inexperience was shared. Wilbur was all charm, better at happiness than George, or maybe just better at faking it. He laughed easily and played guitar and talked to stray cats. He let his brown hair grow out wild and fluffy and managed to wear tasteful sweaters no matter the temperature. Wilbur was fluid, elegant in a way that George envied sometimes. Still, he couldn’t fault Wilbur for much of anything, not when he was such a source of comfort. 

Even as they hit their last growth spurt, Wilbur managed to keep their nine-inch height difference intact. George would have been more annoyed about it if Wilbur didn’t make him feel safe. He wasn’t tiny or anything, but George knew he wasn’t about to win any fights. Having Wilbur with him made him feel protected, like there was something good in between him and the world instead of all that glass muffling things. Besides, Wilbur hugs were the best hugs. The only hugs, mostly. George didn’t mind, though. Wilbur always rested his chin on George’s head and squeezed him so tight that for once, he felt more human than not.

They did the remainder of their growing up together, swapping inside jokes, exploring Brighton on foot, getting into just the right amount of trouble. At first, they pretended they didn’t know why they were friends. It was easier that way. The first time either of them acknowledged the truth of their meeting, it was almost a year after that day at the bakery. They were sitting outside a cafe in a sunny side street somewhere, Wilbur drawing impossible shapes in a leather-bound journal, George sipping a coffee drink that he still wasn’t sure if he hated. They weren’t talking, and hadn’t been for a while. That was all right, though. Sometimes Wilbur just went quiet, lost in thought. He didn’t mean anything by it. George looked up from his feet and asked the question that had been stuck under his tongue for months.

“Wilbur? What are we?”

“Bastards,” Wilbur said without looking up from his journal.

George sighed and shook his head, refusing to laugh.

“Wilbur.”

“George.”

“What are we? Do you know?”

“Does anyone know anything, really?”

“Wilbur!”

George set his drink down with more force than necessary, shaking the whole table. Wilbur’s pen slipped, but he picked it up off the page before it could smudge.

“Please,” George said, desperation edging into his voice, “If you know, if you have any idea --”

“I don’t,” Wilbur cut him off.

It came out bitter.

“What are we?” George repeated.

Finally, Wilbur looked up from his journal.

“Rare,” he said ruefully.

And he was right. George knew he was right. They were impossibly lucky to have found each other. It should have been enough. And it was, almost. Wilbur himself was enough; George never wanted his friend to feel any different, but at the same time, he felt that there was something missing. He didn’t know what it was. Maybe it would always be missing. He still had a thousand questions that he wasn’t even brave enough to ask himself.

All of them remained unanswered until the day he met Sapnap.


	2. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! Here's Dream, as promised.
> 
> Let me know if there's anything you really want to see from this fic. Not everything is set in stone yet, so do let me know. Thanks for reading!

It was shortly after George’s 19th birthday. His parents had surprised him with a trip overseas, to America. He didn’t have the heart to say no, even though it would mean being an ocean away from Wilbur for two weeks. The trip itself was fine. Good, even. They ate good food and explored New York City and its multitude of museums and theaters. George enjoyed the change of pace, but he often felt like his ears were stuffed with cotton.

It was the night they were due to fly back home, and the airport felt even more liminal than usual. It was late, almost one in the morning. Their plane was delayed. George’s parents fell asleep on each other in a pair of chairs by the empty food court, leaving him to wander. Even as late as it was, there was still a decent amount of activity. The city that never sleeps, and all that.

George found himself halfway across the airport, standing at a big window that looked out into the night. He pulled out his phone to check the time. 1:09. He moved closer to the glass, eyes fixed on the shapes of the dormant planes, then on the sky, then on nothing at all. A hundred years passed. He checked the time again. 1:11.

“You’re not from New York, are you?” said a voice somewhere behind him.

He turned sharply away from the window. A boy stood behind him, maintaining a few feet of respectful distance. The neon light from a nearby kiosk hit one side of his face, making him look unearthly. Well, maybe it wasn’t the light. George didn’t know instantly, the way he had with Wilbur. It was a gradual realization, a slow wonder that consumed him as he watched the other boy take a step forward. He was taller than George, but not so tall as Wilbur. Most of his size was in his broad shoulders and solid build. He gave off a hazy sort of warmth, and the air felt heavier and slower in his wake. Yes, George realized, this boy was like him.

“I’m not,” George finally said, remembering the question he had been asked, “I’m actually on my way back to England.”

“Oh, you’re really far away. I live in Texas,” the boy replied.

They stayed like that for a while, silent, sizing each other up in the low light.

Finally, the boy spoke.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone...”

He looked George up and down. He didn’t have to finish the sentence. They understood each other.

“You come here often?” George asked, half joking.

“I’ve been a couple times before,” the boy replied, “You?”

“It’s my first time in America.”

“Oh.”

The boy extended his hand for George to shake.

“Sapnap. You can call me Sap,” he said.

“George,” George said, shaking his hand.

“I’ll probably never see you again, huh?” Sap said ruefully.

George held onto his hand for a moment longer than he needed to.

“We’ll see about that.”

Wilbur didn’t believe him at first. It was a revelation, watching him tell himself over and over not to get his hopes up. Maybe he was more of a pessimist than George had realized. Wilbur finally came around when George put Sap on speakerphone, and his voice came through clear and warm. Hesitantly, Wilbur introduced himself, and it all made sense from there. Well. As much sense as anything in George’s life could make, which wasn’t enough. Sap became a regular part of George’s life, calling at odd hours and telling strange jokes. It helped, having another friend. But it didn’t fix whatever it was that was broken.

George still had to talk himself out of jumping whenever he was up somewhere too high, not because he wanted to fall, but because he was sure he wouldn’t. If he just tried it, just once, he wouldn’t fall. He would soar. He explained this to Wilbur right around the time they were both packing to move out.

“I just want to try it once,” he said, “Just to see. I know I shouldn’t. I probably won’t. But part of me is so sure...”

George sighed.

“I’m probably the only person in the world who thinks they might fly if they took a leap off a building, huh?”

Wilbur put his hand on George’s, then.

“Hey,” he said, waiting until George looked at him. “You’re not.”

Silence, for a time. Maybe Wilbur knew a thing or two about ledges and the way they pulled. Maybe Wilbur wasn't quite as prone to happiness as George has thought. Maybe happiness was something that was doomed to escape them, whatever they were. Silence. Then, Wilbur broke it.

“What if we moved?”

George looked at him incredulously.

“We are moving.”

“No, I mean...what if we left? Picked up and bought plane tickets and went and met Sap?”

George pretended to think this over for a while, but he knew as soon as Wilbur suggested it that he was all in. They left about a month before George’s 20th birthday, leaving behind what must have looked like everything, but felt like very little.

Sap was waiting for them at the New York airport, the same one where he and George first met. How he managed it, George wasn’t sure, but he was glad to see him. He pulled George into a hug and it was strange at first, probably because George wasn’t used to any arms around him that weren’t Wilbur’s. It made sense after a moment though. Sapnap was strong and prone to bear hugs, slapping George’s back as he let go.

“And you’re Wilbur, right?” Sap asked, looking up at the tall, haunted boy.

“In the flesh,” Wilbur replied.

Sapnap smiled, and it made him look older than the city itself.

“Welcome to New York, Wilbur.”

They settled into a routine, or rather, a predictable lack of one. Sapnap had to head back to Texas after a week or so, but promised he would be making the move soon, too. George found himself in an apartment, and then in a job, shuffling papers around for a producer whose profession he didn’t entirely understand. The job didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that he was free. The world had opened up to him, and he felt a little better about being difficult and strange, about being whatever he was. He still didn’t know.

Wilbur made a good, if somewhat fussy, roommate. He didn’t sleep much, and insisted that the kitchen be kept near spotless, but George wasn’t bothered. They actually saw less of each other during the day, each going off to work and returning whenever they were done wandering the city afterwards. Sometimes they went to dinner together, or took turns cooking. Wilbur often stayed up with his guitar, and George was more thankful for it than he ever expressed. His thoughts still got too loud at night, and listening to Wilbur practice was a great comfort.

The problem with New York, George came to realize, was that there were a great deal more tall buildings than anywhere else he had been. They mocked him sometimes, begging him to climb and jump and die. He didn’t want to die, did he? Sometimes he didn’t think he could. He might be immortal, for all he knew. He might jump and hit the ground and simply get back up, unscathed. That would be worse than dying, worse than feeling the impact. 

So he stayed away from the rooftops for almost a year. He kept his feet diligently on the ground until the day before his 21st birthday. Sap was due to move into a studio in December, just in time for Christmas. George should have had more incentive than ever to be careful, but something in the air was pulling at him even more than usual. He got home to an empty apartment and told himself that he wasn’t going to open the windows, wasn’t going to sit on the fire escape, wasn’t going to --

He blinked and found himself on the roof. New York rolled out beneath him like a red carpet, the city lights glittering like stars. He took a step towards the edge. Then another. Then one more, so he could feel the wind on his face. He might have taken another, so he could sit down, swing his legs over the edge, but someone had beaten him to it. And once again, George knew before the stranger turned around, before he even saw him, really. It was the same feeling that emanated from Wilbur and Sap, a flickering, dizzying something in the air that made it difficult to tear your eyes away.

“Nice night for it,” the stranger said conversationally.

He was sitting on the ledge of the roof, head turned slightly upwards towards the sky, legs swinging over the edge. His long, green coat fanned out around him, but he would have been striking even without it. At least, George assumed it was green. The shade looked about right. As George’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could take in more of the stranger’s form. It was a young man, he was sure of that. Caramel blond hair stuck up wild and unruly around the sides of a round mask that was pulled down over the stranger’s face. Only his mouth showed beneath it. He rounded out the strange ensemble with a pair of fitted gloves.

“Nice night for what?” George said shakily.

Shakily. He was shaky. He had never been shaky in his life. The stranger was so vivid, like everything about him had been turned up to 10 while the rest of the world was left dull.

“The thing you’re trying to talk yourself out of,” he replied.

His voice was warm, soothing. He spoke with an ambiguous American accent that fell crisply on George’s ears.

“What thing?” George said crossly, “Who are you?”

“Wrong question,” the stranger tsked.

“Are you like me?” George tried, “You've got to be, right? I know you’re...”

The stranger turned to look at him and George could see the unassuming smiley face drawn across the mask. There were no discernable eye holes. Still, he felt the stranger’s gaze on him. It was electrifying.

“I’m what?”

The stranger’s lips split into a smile that could have easily been called dashing.

“You don’t even know what you are, do you?” he said, tilting his head to consider George’s shape.

George was suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. He wasn’t afraid, exactly, but something in him was squirming under scrutiny, desperate to run, to lose himself in a crowd, to hide behind Wilbur or Sap or --

That was where his list ended, wasn’t it? Pathetic.

“Can you tell me?”

It came out as a whisper, George’s breath catching in his throat. Whoever this stranger was, he knew something. George hoped he knew something, anyway. If there was any chance he could figure out what to do, what it all meant, he had to try.

The stranger stood up in one quick, fluid motion that reminded George of a snake. He turned so that his back was to the drop off, facing George in full. The coat billowed behind him.

“What time is it?” he asked.

George felt for his phone.

“Just past midnight.”

That meant --

“Oh. It’s my birthday,” he added in a murmur.

The stranger regarded him, unreadable under the mask. The wind played with his hair and the tail end of his coat.

“What am I?” George asked mournfully.

“Do you have a favorite flower?”

George blinked.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question,” the stranger said.

“Um...forget-me-nots?” he said faintly, “Or blue poppies. I like blue flowers.”

The stranger’s grin widened and he nodded. George took a step towards him, but he took a step back, his heels teetering on the edge.

“Please, who are you?” George asked again, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“Dream,” the stranger said plainly.

“I’m George.”

The stranger turned his head to look into the wind, as if he was listening for something. Then he turned back to George.

“A word of advice? Don’t jump,” he said, “Not from here. It takes practice.”

And then he took a grand step backwards and fell into a perfect pencil dive. George stared, in a state of shock for half a second, before running to the edge and looking over. There was nothing. No heap of flesh on the sidewalk, no broken body caught on a fire escape, no crowd of onlookers. Nothing flew past, either. The stranger was simply gone. George stepped back from the edge, breathing hard.

That was how George met Dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments are greatly appreciated! Thanks again for reading! <3


	3. The Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three!
> 
> The moral of the story is that I have no idea how to stick to uniform chapter lengths. This one took longer than my typical writing time because real life has been beating me over the head. Things will calm down for me soon, though, and then I'll be back on my usual schedule.
> 
> It means a lot to me that people have been showing this particular story love. This piece is much closer to my typical writing style and is (admittedly) self-indulgently poetic and meandering. Thank you for your support and for sticking with me as I find my footing with this one.

None of it made sense. He turned it over and over in his mind for the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling above his bed. Dream. What a funny name. Probably not his real one. Although, to be completely fair, “Sapnap” probably wasn’t a real name either. George had never asked. Did that make him a bad friend? He never felt like he needed to. Sapnap said to call him “Sap” and George did and that was the end of it. But never mind Sapnap, what the hell had he just witnessed? The mask, the crackling in the air, that perfect grin, his coat whipping against the night. That fall. Dream’s silky voice rang through his head all night --

“A word of advice?”

Maybe it was just the absurdity of the situation, but reality seemed to flicker around him even harder than it did for Wilbur, or Sap, or George himself. Like Dream was more powerful, or maybe just in better control. Like he knew what he was. George considered taking a sick day when the first rays of morning light fell across his face, but decided against it in the end. He didn’t want to have to explain things to Wilbur. He didn’t want to have to sit at home and try to explain things to himself. He went to work. He came home. He planned to drop his bag in his room and then race up to the roof, just in case, but something was waiting for him on the doorstep.

A bouquet. A splash of blue, spilling out over the sides of a vase. George knelt down to it like it might bite him and extended a slow, gentle hand. It was real. He wasn’t sure what he thought would happen, but the petals were soft and vibrant under his fingers. And blue. The blue was important. He picked up the vase and noticed something tucked into the side. A scrap of notebook paper, folded over on itself several times.

Wilbur was home, so he got to watch George stumble through the front door, balancing his work bag, his keys, and the vase full of flowers and nearly drop everything as he banged into the table. Wilbur raised one eyebrow, a silent question that George was too caught up to answer. He set the flowers down, snatched the paper from the rim of the vase, and stood stock still, scanning it with his eyes.

Happy birthday, George.  
Roof at sunset. Bring a coat.

The handwriting was messy, but elegantly so, and George found the loops through the O’s endearing. He stuffed the note into his pocket and almost tripped over himself in his rush back out the front door. Wilbur, perched at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, watched the door slam with calm curiosity. Then he watched it swing open a minute later. George tumbled through, shot him a grimace that said, “I’ll explain later,” grabbed his jacket from the coat rack, and rushed back out. Wilbur watched him go, puzzled, but picking up on the idea that his intervention wasn’t necessary, at least not yet. He went back to his tea.

George burst out onto the roof and bent over for a moment to catch his breath. He was early. The sun was low; setting, but not quite settled into its wash of color. Not that he could see much of that color. There was no one else on the roof. It wasn’t designed specifically for entertaining, but George knew he wasn’t the only resident who came there to think or study. Still, it was cold, and getting colder. No one else dared venture out to face a sky that threatened snow. George clutched the coat to his chest without putting it on, refusing to stop scanning the edge of the roof. Nothing. Only wind and cold and the fabled New York skyline. The sun was setting in earnest now. George pulled the note from his pocket and read it again. Twice. He was an idiot, wasn’t he? Maybe he had made the whole thing up. He already felt so messed up so often, it wouldn’t surprise him.

Then --

“George!”

George whirled around. Sitting cross-legged on the ledge of the rooftop, chin in his hands, was the stranger. Dream. The eyes of the mask pointed towards George, and the curve of the painted smile matched the real one just below it.

“Dream?” George said faintly.

“Glad you could join me,” Dream replied.

George took a tentative step forward, waiting for him to move, to keep the distance between them. When he stayed seated, George took another. Dream patted the stretch of ledge next to him like he had been sitting next to George for his whole life. George’s eyes widened and, after a moment of bashfulness, he took the seat. He stared into Dream’s eyes, or lack thereof -- the ones on the mask. For a moment, no one spoke.

“I love a good New York sunset, don’t you?” Dream asked casually.

George looked past him and out at the sky.

“I suppose,” he said, “it’s all the same to me, though. I’m colorblind.”

“Colorblind.”

Dream repeated it, like he was becoming acquainted with the word.

“Protan colorblind. It means --” George began.

Dream interrupted him.

“It means blue is your favorite color.”

George thought back to the flowers.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

Dream nodded like it made sense. It didn’t. None of it made sense. Dream himself baffled George. There was another silence while George tried to figure out why he was there, why the stranger had summoned him.

“Am I a monster?” George asked quietly.

Dream cocked his head to one side, questioning.

“I know something is wrong with me,” George continued, “I know I’m not human. I can’t be, can I? Something is wrong and I don’t know what it is and I’ve been trying to figure it out my whole life, but I can’t. The closest I’ve come is...”

George hesitated. He could picture Dream effortlessly raising one eyebrow under the mask, eyes sparkling in the frigid air.

“The closest I’ve come is you,” he finished.

“You’re no more of a monster than I am,” Dream said.

He held up one hand, looking down at it with what George assumed was a rueful expression. George followed Dream’s gaze.

“Maybe that’s no comfort, though,” Dream added.

Slowly, Dream pulled his glove off and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. He held out his hand to George, like he was promising a frightened animal that he wouldn’t hurt it. George looked. Aside from a set of particularly sharp, tough looking nails, Dream’s hand was normal. Well... 

When he took off the glove, a burst of feathery down spilled out and into the air like a puff of snow. Feathers grew from Dream’s wrist. Small ones, but still unmistakable. They poked through the skin, fanning around his wrist like a bracelet. 

George held out his own hand, waiting to see if Dream would take it. He didn’t move a muscle, waiting for George to decide for himself. Decide, he did. All at once, George pressed his hand to Dream’s so they were palm to palm, like a mirror. George was certain he could feel Dream falter, startled by the sudden contact. His hand was warm against the November night. In a sudden moment of bravery, George laced their fingers together.

“Why’d you ask me to meet you?” he asked, “And why the coat?”

“I wanted to see you,” Dream said plainly. “You’re like me, I think. Something like me, at least. We should know each other, don’t you think?”

George gulped and tried to picture Dream’s face under the smiling mask.

“And it’s cold. I thought you might want a coat.”

George laughed, caught off guard. Then he shivered, suddenly aware of the fact that he wasn’t wearing the aforementioned coat. Dream held out his hands for it.

“May I?”

Unsure, George handed over the coat. It was a simple jacket, nothing like the long, billowing, green thing that Dream wore. Dream stood up in an alarmingly fluid motion and held the jacket open in front of him. It took George a moment to process that Dream meant to help him into it. He felt his eyes welling. It was mostly because of the sharp cold and the wind that buffeted his face. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Cautiously, George stood up and let Dream help him into the coat. They barely touched, but George could feel his heart hammering. The brush of Dream’s ungloved fingers on his shoulder, even though fabric, was tiny and huge and meaningless and wonderful. Standing so close, their height difference was more apparent. The masked man was easily over six feet, but didn’t quite rival Wilbur. Still, George felt much smaller next to him than he did next to either of his friends. It was difficult to tell under the long coat he wore, but Dream seemed broad and solid in a way that Wilbur wasn’t.

Dream untucked George’s collar for him and stepped back, closer to the ledge. George took a moment to wipe his eyes before he turned, willing his expression to remain neutral. He didn’t have a name for what he was feeling. He wasn’t really used to feeling at all, if he was honest. If George let himself feel things, he felt them deeply. Everything was too bright and too loud and too painful when he let himself feel. So he didn’t. It was easier that way.

“Where are you?”

George blinked and came to, looking up into the eyes of the mask.

“What?”

“You went away for a moment,” Dream said, head tilted in curiosity.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I was just wondering where you went.”

George shrugged.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to answer that.”

“That’s all right.”

For a moment, George was sure he was going to leap off the roof and disappear again. He had that look about him, like a cat ready to spring out of your grasp at a moment’s notice. George’s chest ached at that thought. He tried to say something, to ask Dream to stay, but didn’t manage it. Coward. He was always such a coward. No wonder he didn’t know what he was or who he was or why he was. He felt his eyes start to burn again. Dream didn’t jump. In another lithe, even movement, he sat back down. Relief washed over George. After a moment, Dream patted the spot next to him again, face turned away towards the darkened city. George sat, cross-legged next to him.

“There’s no word for us, you know,” Dream said.

“There isn’t?”

“Not really. Not that I can think of.”

“Oh,” George said.

It came out sadder than he meant it to.

“I do have a theory, though. A hunch, if you will, or maybe just a fondness for a particular term.”

“What’s that?”

Dream turned to look at him again, the arching, narrow smile of the mask suddenly mischievous.

“Angels.”

The word fell from Dream’s tongue like a drop of dew and lingered in the air afterwards. George felt like the wind was knocked out of his lungs, like he was the one hurtling off the roof and through the air. Angels. Maybe it wasn’t exactly right, but it was close. It was something. George had never had a “something” before.

“Angels?” he repeated.

It was half-question. Dream dipped his head, a rakish nod.

“Best thing I could think of,” he said.

George stared up at Dream, searching for some meaning in the mask. If Dream was looking back, he gave no indication of it. The silence snapped when he spoke.

“How old are you turning, George?”

George shivered, even in spite of his jacket. His name was soft on Dream’s lips, a weightless thing. He looked away, cheeks suddenly warm and tried to think. It often took him a while to remember how old he was.

“Twenty-one,” he murmured.

“Took you a moment.”

“I...”

George searched for the right thing to say, but Dream beat him to it.

“You feel a lot older, right?”

George sighed. They were alike.

“Right.”

Something occurred to him.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“I’ve forgotten,” Dream said with a chuckle, “We’ve all forgotten, really. Haven’t we?”

A long silence, longer than George intended. He was working up the courage to ask a question. He had never been so scared to say something so small before. It was a night of firsts.

“Will I see you again?”

It came out quiet, but it came out. Dream smiled and George could feel his eyes on him.

“If you’ll have me.”

George gulped. His eyes dropped to Dream’s hand, resting next to him. The calloused fingertips, the feathers peeking out around the end of the sleeve. He felt a little dangerous and a little familiar. It was intoxicating. George said the only thing he could think of.

“Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Expect the next chapter sooner rather than later. As always, your comments are greatly appreciated. I read and consider all of them. <3


	4. The Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, my chapters keep getting longer. I swear I'm going to just end up with an entire book, this was only supposed to be like 6k words total. Anyway, I'm still having a good time writing it and I do know where it's going now, even if it's spiraled into a lot more detail than I originally intended. I might even extend it from 6 chapters to 7, depending on how I frame the next one.
> 
> Also! Ao3 really likes to delete all my italics? I don't know what's up with that, but I haven't been adding them back in for the most part because the text editor scares me. Hopefully that doesn't mangle my prose too much.
> 
> Lots of Dream/George in this one! As always, thank you from the bottom of my heart, and do please let me know your thoughts! <3

After that, George was always halfway on the roof. Whether he was at work, at home, walking through Central Park, talking to Wilbur, laying in bed, part of him was sitting on the edge of the rooftop with Dream. His fascination with the man -- if he was a man -- was constant, eating at him after that night on the roof when the word “angels” was first spoken. It might have swallowed George whole if he hadn’t seen Dream again.

It happened on his way home from work, just a few more days after that night on the roof. Like all of the strangest, most human things in Manhattan, it happened on the subway. George was staring out the window, like he always did, watching the city fly by, listening to the familiar clatter of the train. The seat next to him was, for once, empty. And then it wasn’t. He didn’t feel anyone sit down, but suddenly someone was next to him. He kept his eyes on the window as his heartbeat sped up, trying to sense the person next to him without looking. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could tell. Before he could burst a blood vessel trying to mimic clairvoyance, the question was answered for him. Dream’s warm, even voice came across clear and easy.

“Hope you weren’t saving this seat for anyone?”

George would recognize that voice anywhere. He turned and looked. There he was, gloved hands folded in his lap, smile soft and dangerous. His mask was still on, pulled slightly up from covering his whole face so his mouth was visible below it, like always. George glanced around the car.

“You must know that I’m not the strangest thing they’ve seen today, right?” Dream asked, following George’s gaze.

George looked back at him, trying not to betray the cocktail of emotion that was shaking around in his chest.

“Is that why you live here? In New York?” he asked timidly.

“Right on the money. Besides, no one looks at you funny for wearing gloves around here. I would never survive Los Angeles.”

“Can you fly?” George burst out.

If anyone sitting near them heard him, they gave no indication. Like Dream said, New Yorkers have a way of tuning things out.

“Sort of. More than the average person, I think.”

Again, that dashing smile. It was so haphazard, so rough. It suited him perfectly. George found himself picturing what was under that mask. It had to be something awful, right? He envisioned eight eyes, like a spider, or perhaps empty eye sockets leaking black vapor, or maybe nothing at all, a smile and a stretch of bare skin, like a blank canvas. All options were equally interesting, and, in George’s mind, equally possible.

He wanted to ask about the flying thing again, to make Dream elaborate. Ever since he had put the feathers and the angels and Dream’s leap off the roof together in his head, his own notions of flight had become torturous. Still, it felt like something sacred, far too important to be discussed on a crowded train just before rush hour. Regretfully, George changed the subject.

“So what brings you on the 4:45?”

Dream looked up at the route map posted on the wall as if he was only just realizing that he was on a train.

“Well, I hope you won’t find this too forward, but...”

And Dream hesitated. And George knew it must be important, because Dream never hesitated. He never stuttered or stammered or second-guessed his words. It did not seem within his nature. And yet...

“...I was wondering if you would come to dinner tonight?”

George felt himself blush all the way to the tips of his ears. It wasn’t an inherently suggestive invitation, but it shook him. He said yes before he could talk himself out of it.

The restaurant was closed before they got there. It was the most human thing George had seen Dream do, something as simple as forgetting to check a restaurant’s hours. It didn’t seem to phase Dream, though, even as they stood in front of the darkened storefront. He simply tilted his masked head slightly to one side, regarding.

“That’s a shame,” he said, all business, “Do you have a favorite restaurant?”

George blinked for a moment, re-centering himself. Sure, he did. He didn’t often have terribly strong opinions one way or another, but there was a good spot for dinner that he frequented with Wilbur. One problem --

“I do, but it’s all the way across town.”

“Hmm. And the subway’s probably packed now.”

George looked up at Dream, who seemed to be debating something internally.

“All right, tell you what,” he said after a moment, “I’ll make you dinner. What do you say?”

Desperate not to betray how flustered he was, George gulped.

“That would be nice,” he managed.

What a perfect opportunity to be kidnapped and murdered and dumped into the Hudson. Dream suddenly seemed so much bigger than him, so much more powerful. He could probably snap George in half, if he really wanted to. He could probably take his mask off and will him dead with just his eyes, if he had eyes. But then, George already felt dead half the time. He was a mistake, a glitch in the system, a defect. There was something Wrong with him and it might be Wrong forever if he didn’t figure it out soon. Dream was the answer. Dream had to be the answer. In a daze, George followed Dream down the street, trying to keep up with his long, confident strides. It was a short walk, but not suspiciously short. George wasn’t really keeping track. He was too busy wondering where Dream lived. Was it a brownstone? They weren’t quite in the right area for that. Was it a hole in the ground, a portal to elsewhere?

“Here we are!”

George came to. Dream was unlocking the front door of an apartment building with one of the most normal keys that George had ever seen. Then they were heading up the stairs and the scent of old wood and carpet hit George’s nose. It wasn’t bad. On the contrary, it was a nice kind of smell, a bit like an old library. They made it up to the fourth floor and Dream unlocked a door and held it open for George. They stepped inside. It was normal. More than that, it was human. The furniture was cozy, lived-in. A bookshelf sat proudly by the window. Potted plants covered a table by the door. The light was warm, like grandmother’s house in fairytales, like hot tea, like Dream.

“This is yours?” George murmured.

“As much as anything can be anyone’s,” Dream said, tucking his keys back into his pocket.

George waited for him to hang up his coat. There was a coat stand by the door, but it was completely bare. Instead, Dream rolled his shoulders back behind him, stretching his muscles out like he was sore. Then he walked over to the dining table and pulled out a chair. George realized it was for him and sat down hurriedly. Dream lingered behind him for a moment, hands on the back of the chair. It was fleeting though, and before George knew it, an old big band tune wafted through the little apartment. Dream had turned on the old radio on the kitchen counter. He looked back over his shoulder at George, as if seeking his approval. George smiled. It felt real. A lot of his smiles didn’t.

Then there was water heating on the stove and a whole pile of spices on the counter and Dream was reaching for a knife --

George tensed. He looked so natural with it, so polished. Did Dream handle knives often enough to justify how confident he was? What a terrible thought. As George watched, he deftly flipped the handle from his left hand to his right and started dicing mushrooms.

“You’re not picky, are you?” Dream asked, not looking up from the cutting board.

“I don’t think so,” George replied faintly.

Next thing, a fish would swim by the window on its way downtown. This place was just like every other Manhattan apartment that George had seen: small, old, simple. But there was something about this one, about it being filled with plants and music and books and, now, the wonderful smell of home cooking. It was all those things and somehow, at the same time, it belonged to Dream. Dream, who George had no real excuse for following halfway across the city. Dream, the unanswered question to end all unanswered questions. George sighed, thinking about it.

“What’s on your mind?”

Dream was throwing things into a saucepan. George rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

“Nothing. Everything.”

“Sounds about right.”

They slipped into a calm, clean silence for a while. George watched Dream like someone seeing color for the first time. Not that that was something he would ever get to do. Ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. Dream’s hands, his tan skin against the wood of his cooking spoon, gloves discarded across the table from George. The line of his jaw, sharp and proud in spite of the mask that he still had on. Mesmerizing. It occurred to George that Dream might have been wrong -- maybe they weren’t the same at all. How could he possibly be made of the same stuff as the compelling, magnetic entity who was currently cooking pasta? Dream didn’t get away with a mask and leather gloves and a coat like a fairytale villain because New Yorkers were jaded. It helped, sure, but George knew the truth. Dream got away with it because he was Dream. Simple as that. He moved and spoke with a calm, unearthly confidence. He had probably talked his way onto George’s roof in the first place. Hell, he could probably talk his way onto any roof he felt like standing on top of.

“Dinner’s ready!”

George blinked away his reverie and looked down at the table, suddenly interested by the pattern of the wood.

“Here.”

Dream set a plate of spaghetti smothered in a thick sauce down in front of George. He set his own plate down while George was staring in wonder at the food in front of him. It wasn’t that he didn’t eat well at home, just that he didn’t find much satisfaction in it. Food didn’t make him happy. Nothing made him happy. Maybe this would be the exception. George didn’t look up until he saw a flicker of green -- well, red? He had never bothered to ask what color that coat Dream wore really was. It fell somewhere in the red/green zone for him, somewhere within the vast expanse of shades that all looked about the same. But nevermind, it was a flash because -- because Dream was taking off his coat. 

George forced himself not to stare, not to panic at what might be under it. There was no grandeur to the moment, but Dream seemed to be calculated, moving slower than he typically did, face turned slightly away so he didn’t have to look at George. Was he shy? The coat fell from his shoulders and waist and he bundled it up into his arms before hanging it on the rack by the door. He sat down across from George with a small smile and dinner began. George didn’t see any wings. Well, not the first time he looked.

It was more a trick of the light than anything else, something you could only see out of the corner of your eye. But the more George stole glances at Dream between bites of the best pasta he’d ever tasted, the more certain he was that there was something there. His shoulders shifted under a weight that shouldn’t have been there, and he sat upright in his chair, like he was counterbalancing a backpack. And George could see them, in little glimmers. When he sipped his water, he could see the shape of something huge and powerful and soft on Dream’s back. His silhouette was changed, if only for fleeting moments.

George didn’t ask about the wings. Any question he could begin to form felt too intimate to be asked at dinner. Anyway, it was enough just to see them out of the corner of his eye, the same way it was enough just to watch Dream exist, even if he would never know the truth about him. They ate in silence for a while. Then Dream asked George his favorite book and George said it was The Wind in the Willows and another wave of warmth washed over the whole room.

They talked for hours, mostly about nothing. Books and places they’d been and who would win at chess (George conceded it would probably be Dream in the end.) The more they spoke, the more George was fascinated by how expressive Dream could be with most of his face covered. The blank smile on his mask was still unnerving, yes, but Dream shone through more and more as George spoke to him. Dinner was well and done and still, George didn’t want to leave. The thought of a long, cold subway ride back to an apartment where Wilbur was most likely already asleep became less and less appealing with each passing moment.

“Dream?” George asked, breaking a small silence that was forming between them.

“Yes?”

“On the matter of flying...”

Dream waited for the sentence to end, but George could find nothing to end it with. He didn’t know the first thing about flight, or wings, or --

“I’ll teach you.”

George blinked.

“What? Really?”

“Yes,” Dream replied, “As best I can. I can’t say I’m all that good at it myself, but...you deserve to know.”

“I haven’t got wings, though.”

Dream shrugged.

“Neither have I.”

George opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Then opened it again.

“Yes you have! You’ve got -- “

He gestured towards Dream’s back.

“You’ve got something. I know you do.”

Dream broke out into a grin.

“Observant. I like that.”

George blushed. He had probably blushed more in that one night than in the rest of his life put together.

“I haven’t got anything like you do,” he said, “No feathers or wings or anything. I’m just empty. I’m just nothing, and I always have been and maybe I always will be. I’m not like you, I’m not -- “

Dream stood up abruptly and George quieted. He was still a bit wary of Dream, of the power he could sense just under the masked man’s calm surface. Still, he felt safe in Dream’s presence, not afraid of the man, himself, but of the things that Dream might show him or force him to recognize.

Wordlessly, Dream pushed his chair in and strode to the window. He unlocked it deftly, opened the grate, and climbed through with the lithe grace of a cat. His feet hit the fire escape soundlessly. He turned back towards George.

“Come on.”

What could George do besides comply? He approached the exit cautiously and found, as he guessed, that Dream had made getting through it look much easier than it was. He hesitated, but then Dream held out his hand. It was just meant for support, surely, so George didn’t fall several stories and empty his skull out on the pavement, but the notion of Dream’s skin against his skin was motivating. He took Dream’s hand. The feathers on his wrist brushed against George’s skin and George shivered.

Then they were both on the fire escape. It was freezing, the sky promising snow. George wished he had had the foresight to grab his coat off the back of the chair. Dream was also without his coat, though, so at least they were even. He seemed exposed without it, like George was seeing him half naked. The thought made his head spin. He wore a plain, white button up and a pair of dark jeans. Normal clothes, right? George never cared much for fashion. Color coordination was lost on him, so his wardrobe was mostly monochrome anyway. He shivered against the night air and realized, all at once, that Dream hadn’t let go of his hand.

The taller man used it to guide him right up to the edge of the fire escape, overlooking the street. The railing was narrow and old, rusted into brittleness. It felt like it might give under him at any second if he leaned on it. Dream moved to stand behind him and dropped George’s hand to brace one hand on the railing next to him, effectively caging him in. George’s breath caught in his throat.

“Dream?” he asked quietly, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

“Look,” Dream said, his voice soft, but forceful.

George looked over the edge. They were high up. Not as high as the roof of his apartment building, but high enough that a fall from the fire escape would do some damage.

“Look down there and listen to the wind and tell me what you feel.”

George looked down at the pavement, at that great, exhilarating jump. He wanted to fly. He wanted to leap and soar and be gone. And he knew he could do it too, if he wasn’t such a coward. He was built for that jump, for that height. It hurt. It hurt like hell.

“I feel -- I want to jump. I want to jump and land soft and easy and I know I can’t and it hurts.”

George’s voice caught on the last word. Dream must have picked up on it because he leaned over George more solidly, less a threat behind him and more a comforting warmth at his back.

“All right,” he said gently, “That feeling? People don’t feel like that. It took me a while to learn that, but that’s not normal. That’s not what normal is. That’s what we are -- whatever we are. You and me.”

“Why am I so messed up?” George choked.

Dream tsked.

“You’re not messed up -- “

“I am!” George snapped. “I am and there’s nothing you can do about it! You can’t put me back together!”

He turned around sharply, intending to breeze past Dream and perhaps all the way out the door and back home. But he couldn’t. Dream didn’t move for him. And now they were standing right there, almost nose to nose, except that Dream’s nose was still covered by the mask, and his height removed him slightly from George’s face. Dream leaned back from the railing and slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“You’re right,” he said, “I can’t put you back together. Because you’re not broken.”

It was such a simple thing to say, but it meant everything. George wanted to hug him, wrap his arms around those broad shoulders and hold on until all the hurt he was storing up was gone. He didn’t, though. He couldn’t. He just shivered instead. Dream ran a gentle hand down his arm and turned back towards the window.

“You’re cold. Why don’t you get your coat on and I’ll call you a cab?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. The plot ~thickens~
> 
> I read every comment and take everything you say into consideration. Next chapter coming soon. Thank you for your patience. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can expect the next chapter in a couple of days. As always, your comments are greatly appreciated. <3


End file.
